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# Chapter 204: Names in Documents
Kang Liou’s fingers pressed against the edge of the file folder. The paper was cold and heavy. But the weight came not from the paper itself—it came from what lay within. Kang Liou knew this. He knew why his father had summoned him to this office. He hadn’t come to discover what this was. He already knew. He came only to confirm it. To verify whether his imagination fell short of reality, or whether reality was more terrible than anything he’d imagined.
When he opened the folder, his breathing became shallow. He felt it but didn’t stop. He continued. First document. A Korean name: Na Sea-ah. Resident registration number. Date of birth. An address in Jeju. And a photograph. Black and white. A childhood photo. A small face, large eyes, expressionless. As if someone had forced that expression upon her. Like an ID photo. Or a record.
Below it lay another document. Same format. Same black and white photograph. But the name was different. Na Ri-u. A Jeju address. A different resident registration number. An even younger photograph. This child’s eyes were larger. Or more frightened.
Kang Liou stood motionless. He didn’t lift the folder or set it down. He simply stood there. In the office on the thirty-fourth floor. Before the black desk. Facing what his father had hidden for thirty years.
Two children’s photographs. Sharing the same mother’s facial features. Sharing the same Jeju address. But Kang Liou’s name was nowhere to be found. His name as Kang Min-jun’s son. The name Kang Liou. It wasn’t in this file.
Instead, there were other things. Bank account copies. Deposit records. And beside them, withdrawal records. Amounts that diminished over time. Every month. Every year. Ten years. Twenty years. Thirty years. As time passed, the amounts grew smaller. And at some point, they became zero. Nothing remained.
Kang Liou felt his hands trembling. Like his father. Like Sea-ah. Like all of his father’s children. In this city. On this night. Everyone was trembling.
“Do you know what I do?”
His father’s voice came from behind. Kang Liou didn’t turn around. He already knew. That his father would be here. That he’d be waiting for Kang Liou to discover this.
“I make money.”
His father answered his own question.
“In various ways. Real estate. Stocks. And… people.”
Kang Min-jun sat down at the desk. Kang Liou remained standing. Still holding the file.
“This child, Na Sea-ah. She had a beautiful voice. Really. I’ve seen many children, but a voice like that is rare. We could make a lot of money with that voice.”
His father spoke. There was no emotion in his voice. As if what he was saying concerned nothing more than the weather. Or stock prices.
“But a problem arose. As she grew older, that voice weakened. Her ability to generate income declined. So we needed another way. A different way to use that child.”
Kang Min-jun’s fingers tapped against the desk. Tap-tap-tap-tap. An irregular rhythm. As he listened to that sound, Kang Liou understood why his own fingers trembled. Was this heredity? Or learned behavior? Or simply fear?
“There was another child too. Na Ri-u. Younger. That one was easier. She didn’t even know what was happening. Her heart was soft. So… well, anyway.”
Kang Min-jun stopped speaking. In that silence, Kang Liou heard more. The sentences his father hadn’t finished. The things he hadn’t said. The most important things.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Kang Liou asked. His voice sounded like it didn’t belong to him. Low. Cold. Dark.
“Because you need to know.”
“Why?”
“Because now it’s my turn to push you out.”
Kang Min-jun replied.
Kang Liou looked at his father. For the first time, turning around. Facing him directly. There was no emotion there that he had expected. No guilt. No regret. Only numbness. Or perhaps the skill to conceal it perfectly. A skill his father had practiced for thirty years.
“Let Sea-ah go.”
Kang Liou said.
“Let her go? Who’s holding her?”
“You are.”
“Did I do something? Did I force her to sign? Did I grab her hand and make her write her name on a contract? She made a choice. She needed money.”
Kang Min-jun spoke. And Kang Liou knew it wasn’t a lie. It was a partial truth. Sea-ah had chosen this. She needed money. For Do-hyun to attend school. For their mother to go to the hospital. So Sea-ah sold her voice. Her name. Her future.
“But now her ability is no longer needed. I had a plan, and it’s complete. No one will remember that child anymore. Not in the music industry. She was just someone’s voice. And someone’s voice is just a voice. A name is unnecessary.”
Kang Min-jun laughed at his own words. It wasn’t laughter—it was air expelled from his lungs. From his throat. Not the laugh of a human but of a machine.
Kang Liou held the file. Still. Containing two children’s photographs. The file was very thin. Just a few sheets of paper. A few photographs. Yet it contained everything. Sea-ah’s childhood. Do-hyun’s childhood. The way their father abandoned them. The way their mother tried to protect them. And the way his own father used them.
“What about these documents?”
Kang Liou asked.
“Insurance. If those children ever think about talking, I can silence them with these. I can show them that revealing this will destroy their family more. That their family’s secrets will be exposed to the world. Most people choose silence. To protect their families.”
His father explained.
“And even if those children go crazy and do talk, I can destroy these documents. Eliminate the evidence. Then it’s just someone’s word. Someone’s lie. My word has lawyers behind it. Money. Time. What do those children have?”
Kang Liou didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up the file. Gripped it tightly. And walked. Past his father. Toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
His father asked.
“I don’t need this.”
Kang Liou answered.
“What?”
“Any of it.”
Kang Liou opened the door. Stepped into the hallway. And walked toward the elevator. His pace wasn’t hurried. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t look back. He didn’t see what his father did. He simply knew. That his father would sit down again. And call someone else. And make another plan.
The elevator descended. From the thirty-fourth floor to the first. Inside it, Kang Liou held the file. Two children’s photographs. And he considered what his choice would be.
In the hospital room, Sea-ah’s phone rang. It was Kang Liou. She saw it but didn’t answer. Do-hyun watched her. Again. With that same look. Why again.
“Answer it.”
Do-hyun said. It sounded less like a command and more like a plea.
“I can’t.”
Sea-ah replied.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
The ringing stopped. Then immediately started again. It was Kang Liou. Again. Again. A third time.
As Sea-ah heard it, she felt that she was missing something. Something important. Very important. But she couldn’t grasp what it was. As if she were underwater. And someone on the surface was calling, but their voice was distorted and muffled. She could hear but couldn’t understand.
Do-hyun picked up the phone. Sea-ah’s. And answered it.
“Let me talk to my sister.”
Do-hyun said.
Sea-ah looked at Do-hyun. The child’s face was resolute. Seventeen years old. Too young. Yet already grown. Because of her. Because of their mother. Because of everything.
When Sea-ah took the phone, she heard Kang Liou’s breathing. Fast. Shallow.
“Sea-ah. Listen. It’s me. Kang Liou. I need to tell you something. Really. I’m not trying to hurt you. It’s the opposite. I need to help you. Now.”
Kang Liou spoke. His voice was trembling.
“What are you doing?”
Sea-ah asked.
“I’m coming. To you. Right now. Can you give me the hospital address?”
Kang Liou asked. And Sea-ah understood it wasn’t a question. It sounded like one, but it was a command. A command from Kang Min-jun’s son. One that couldn’t be refused.
The screen went dark. Not because the hospital room lights were turned off. But because Sea-ah’s eyes closed. In that moment, her mother’s fingers trembled again. A very small movement. Millimeters. But this time it meant something different. This wasn’t a finger trying to wake. This was a finger warning of something. That something was coming. That something was changing. Something that could no longer remain in silence.
Sea-ah’s hand gripped her mother’s hand tighter. And Do-hyun saw it. Her sister’s hand wouldn’t let go of their mother’s. As if a daughter, drowning in water, had grasped her mother’s hand rising above the surface. As if to not lose herself.
Kang Liou was in a taxi. The file was held against his chest. And he was heading to the hospital. To Sea-ah. To Sea-ah’s mother. Bringing everything he could.
The lights of Seoul passed through the taxi window. Gangnam. Seocho. Yongsan. And finally, the Han River. Kang Liou saw that landscape but didn’t see it. He was simply going. Unstoppable now. With no way to return. Because he’d learned who he was. His father’s son. And he had no choice but to refuse it.
The hospital room clock showed 2:47 AM. Dawn. The darkest hour. The loneliest hour. Yet something was moving in this hour. Her mother’s fingers. Sea-ah’s hand. Do-hyun’s anxiety. And Kang Liou’s footsteps. All of them.
Sea-ah put down her phone. And looked at her mother. Eyes still closed. But her fingers were trembling. As if speaking. As if warning of something.
“Sister.”
Do-hyun spoke again.
“What.”
“Kang Liou is coming.”
“I know.”
“And Mom is…”
Do-hyun stopped speaking.
“What?”
“Trying to wake up.”
Do-hyun looked at their mother’s fingers. They’d grown stronger. Not trembling but movement. As if trying to grasp something. Or push something away.
Sea-ah’s hand never released their mother’s. And that was everything about this night. Hands. Trembling. And movement toward awakening. No longer silence but something else.
When Kang Liou’s taxi arrived at the hospital entrance, Haneul was standing outside. Alone. Two hours before dawn. Smoking a cigarette. Not his first. Multiple cigarettes. Cigarette butts lay scattered around him.
Haneul saw Kang Liou. And Kang Liou saw Haneul. There was no greeting. Just acknowledgment. Confirming that there was someone else protecting Sea-ah.
Kang Liou entered the hospital with the file. Haneul watched. The thickness of that file. What it contained, he wondered. But he didn’t ask. Instead, he followed. Behind him. As he always had.
When the hospital room door opened, Sea-ah was still holding her mother’s hand. And Do-hyun was still standing. Between them. And Kang Liou stopped at the doorway. Checking if this was a space he was allowed to enter. Or afraid that entering would shatter something.
“You can’t.”
Sea-ah said. Without looking at Kang Liou.
“Can’t what?”
Kang Liou asked.
“Any of this.”
Sea-ah answered. And Kang Liou understood it was about him. Or about his father. Or that all of this needed to end.
Kang Liou held the file. Still. And he set it down. On the floor. At the hospital room entrance. Until no one picked it up.
3 AM exactly.
The fluorescent light in the hospital room flickered. Not an electrical problem. Just a flicker. Once. Twice. Then it brightened again. In that moment, her mother’s eyes trembled. Very slightly. As if someone from far away was pulling at her eyelids.
Do-hyun wanted to scream. But held back. Like Sea-ah. In silence. Waiting. Confirming whether that final movement toward awakening was truly awakening.
And her mother’s eyes opened.
Very slowly. Like rising from underwater. From the depths. From Jeju’s sea. From deep places. After thirty years underwater. Finally.
Her eyes opened completely. Slowly. Like waking from hypnosis. Or from deep surgery.
And when those eyes fully opened, her gaze wavered. Searching for focus. That gaze moved slowly. From the ceiling light to the wall. From the wall to the ceiling. And finally…
To Sea-ah and Do-hyun’s faces.
In that moment, her mother’s lips moved. As if to speak. But no voice came. Vocal cords unused for thirty years. A mouth closed for thirty years.
“Mom…”
Sea-ah whispered. With a voice that might call her mother back to wakefulness.
Her mother’s eyes found Sea-ah. Focus locked. And something appeared in those eyes. Recognition. Memory. Or the confusion of waking from a thirty-year dream.
Do-hyun felt her mother’s hand move. This time not an intentional movement but almost reflexive. As if responding to Sea-ah’s voice.
“Mom, it’s me. It’s Sea-ah.”
Sea-ah spoke. Her voice trembled. How many times had she repeated those words, waiting for this moment? Now they were real.
Outside the room, Kang Liou and Haneul heard it all. Kang Liou’s chest tightened. His hand went to his pocket. Another file there. Another secret.
But not now. This moment of miracle seemed to pause everything.
Her mother’s eyes moved to Do-hyun. And tears gathered in them. Tears after thirty years. Emotion after thirty years. Slowly, so slowly, rolling down her cheeks.
“…Ah…”
Her mother made a sound. Not words. Just voice. But it was the most beautiful sound. Sea-ah and Do-hyun heard it. They would never forget it.
Her mother had awakened. Breaking thirty years of silence. Piercing thirty years of darkness.
And it was a beginning. Of a new story. Of new pain. Of new healing.
The hospital room’s fluorescent light shone brightly. No longer flickering. Just bright. Bright.